MondayThursday Secrets
by whoriartywrites
Summary: Sherlock was acting strange. Well, he always acted strange. More importantly, Sherlock was acting suspicious.


Title: Monday-Thursday Secret  
Rating: General audiences  
Pairing: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes  
Summary: Fluffy Marriage proposal fill  
Warnings: Fluff, wool  
Notes: See end of fic for more notes.

Sherlock was acting strange. Well, he always acted strange.

More importantly, Sherlock was acting suspicious.

After two years with him, John was used to departures from the flat at all hours of the day or night. Sometimes when John was drifting off and his lover couldn't sleep, Sherlock would slip out of bed and into the London night. When asked, he would explain the purpose of the trips, everything from keeping touch with the homeless networks to scoping out the traffic patterns in the small hours of the night.

During his hours at the surgery, he knew Sherlock would be off and about, sometimes at St. Bart's, sometimes pouting around Scotland Yard.

Once, shortly after they began sharing one bedroom (much to Mrs. Hudson's delight), Sherlock'd disappeared for 4 days, completely unresponsive to texts or calls. He reappeared, unapologetic and tanned, having solved a case in Mexico. He'd brought John back a Baja hoodie and enough money to pay the rent for the next few months, and John had forgiven him. Of course he'd forgiven him.

This time was different. Instead of merely disappearing, his eyes following patterns that only Sherlock could see, he would try and sneak out of the flat at a time John was busy. At first, it was when John showering. The next time, it was while John was passed out after day and night of pursuing suspects. Once, Sherlock asked John to make dinner, and while the doctor was puttering around in the kitchen, the detective had snuck out.

When asked, Sherlock always said that he was working on "a case".

"What case?" John had asked him a month ago.

Sherlock steepled his hands across his face. "A very important one."

"With Lestrade? Mycroft?"

"Not…exactly." And that was the most he'd gotten out of him. Every Monday night and Thursday since then, he'd been absent from the flat for most of dinner time.

Once, coming home dealing a double-shift and a boy with a particularly volatile stomach flu, John dragged himself straight to the shower. He stepped underneath the warm water for only a moment before he heard the front door open. In a burst of speed, he jumped out of the shower, grabbed a dressing gown, and rushed to the door.

Peeking around the bannister, he could see his lover. At the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock accepted a package from Mrs. Hudson. He tucked the large bag under his arm, and continued out the door. John watched him until he strode from sight. Mrs. Hudson, clever woman, saw John's head peering from the upper floor, and immediately disappeared into her flat, slamming the door. Curious.

One night, especially lonely after eating another take-away by himself, John confronted Sherlock when he came home. "Have you been…"

"I would never." Sherlock realized what he was asking before John finished the thought. His face showed surprise, and then, quickly shuttered, hurt.

John melted, suddenly ashamed of doubting Sherlock's loyalty. "I'm sorry, it's just…you always tell me what you're up to."

"Sometimes it's good to have a few secrets from each other." Sherlock told him coyly.

John knew he had no secrets from Sherlock. He could have no secrets, even if he wanted to. After two years, he didn't want to.

But John Watson was an accommodating man, and trusting, and so he let Sherlock have his Monday-Thursday secret.

It was a chilly Monday in late January. It was already starting to get dark as John walked home from the surgery. Sherlock lounged on the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table, texting, as usual. He was also wearing a tuxedo (very unusual). He looked expectantly at John.

"Are…we going somewhere?" John wracked his brain to remember if there was some event going on. A few months ago, they'd gone to the police gala, but he didn't…

"Go shower. I bought you a tuxedo."

"I have a perfectly serviceable suit that fits me just fine!"

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow. John grudgingly muttered top himself as he hurried up to the shower.

A cab was waiting when he returned downstairs. Sherlock held out an arm for John to take. At the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Hudson was waiting. There was a large box in silver wrapping at her feet. John started to feel very nervous. She hugged one, then the other, tears glistening in her eyes. Sherlock collected the box, and held the door for John as they walked out into the light flurries.

"I didn't expect it would snow this year." Sherlock commented.

"What is this all about?" John hissed when they got in the cab. He tugged at the collar of the tuxedo shirt. "What's the present for? Where are we going?"

"You'll see." Sherlock said enigmatically.

The cab stops, less than a mile from 221B.

"Angelo's?" John asked in disbelief.

"Just wait."

The restaurant was transformed. Angelo himself greeted them, wearing a tuxedo (his, clearly rented). There were only 3 tables and no other customers, with floor-length table clothes and silver candle-sticks. Instead of the typical mismatched flatware, there was a set of old-fashioned silver, with twice the normal utensils.

"What's going on?" John demanded, standing. Sherlock handed Angelo his coat and scarf, and sat, ignoring John's tantrum.

He opens his phone, typing quickly, and holds it out to John. It's a calendar, with a date marked. _January 29__th__: Met John Watson_.

"It's…it's our anniversary?" John deduced quietly, sitting down.

"Two years." Sherlock confirmed.

"We didn't celebrate it last year."

Sherlock sniffed. "I brought you roses."

"The only time we had roses at the flat, they were in the blender. With pig's blood, if I recall correctly."

"Cow's blood. And yes, I suppose experimenting on them before actually giving them to you may have dampened the romantic effect…"

"You didn't need to do all this…" John tugged at the sleeves of his tux self-consciously.

Angelo returned, grinning from ear to ear, with a large plate. It bore two very stylized pieces of toast piled with something unidentifiable, and smelled delicious. He put it on the table between the two.

"I'll have the usual, Angelo." John told him, eyeing the toast.

"Oh, no, Dr. Watson. We have a special menu prepared for you tonight." Angelo shone with pride, smooching his fingers in the quintessential chef's gesture.

The starters were a far higher quality than anything he'd ever eaten at Angelo's, and the pheasant pie they had for dinner was perhaps the best food he'd ever eaten period.

Sherlock watched John, smiling warmly, as they ate. Although the romance felt a bit forced, they quickly fell into their usual pattern of chatter over dinner at Angelo's and John almost managed to feel at ease with the silver and the china and the tuxes.

It wasn't until Angelo brought out fresh-baked madeleine and crème fraiche that John remembered the mysterious box (and the tears in Mrs. Hudson's eyes). At John's questing glance,  
Sherlock produced it. Moving John's sherry with one hand, he set it down in front of him.

"I didn't get you…"

"Don't worry, I knew you'd forgotten. Open it." Sherlock was positively glowing. It frightened him.

The present was exquisitely wrapped, and John nervously began to undo each ribbon. Sherlock watched intently as his lover tentatively ripped the paper (expensive, though John didn't notice).

Finally, the box beneath was revealed and John pulled off the top.

It was an Aran jumper. The white wool was knit into a variety of intricate patterns. John pulled it out of the box, his face frozen in expectant confusion.

"Oh, very nice. Yes, this is very nice indeed. Certainly looks cozy!" John told Sherlock. Sherlock's face had fallen. John searched for something more to say. "Very thick wool, definitely warm."

He went to check the tag (though obviously Sherlock would know his size). There was none.  
"Oh, this…is this home-made?"

Sherlock's face perked up a little.

"Wow, a real home-made aran jumper! I haven't had one of these since I was a boy, my nana made me one."

Now Sherlock's face was unreadable. John was struggling.

"Did…you make this?"

The enigmatic man smiled, just a little.

"You did? When did you have.."

"Knitting group on Mondays and Thursdays."

"Oh, and to think what I thought. I didn't know you could knit."

"I haven't since grammar school. Mummy taught me." Sherlock shrugged.

"Oh, thank you. I'll treasure this. My gran-da wore his nearly every day. Nana had made it for him as an engagement gift…"

He stopped midsentence. John's jaw dropped. Sherlock smiled.

The doctor turned bright red. He opened his mouth a few times as though to speak, but nothing came out.

"John, I know we haven't talked about this, but I really had planned on just keeping you around for the next…hundred years or so." Sherlock told him.

John gaped.

"That is…I mean…if you're willing." Sherlock told him haltingly.

John gasped for air.

Sherlock flushed. "I mean, I know you generally prefer women, but I thought that we had something, and I just wanted to…"

John launched himself across the table, kissing Sherlock passionately; completely unaware that he dropped the sleeve of his new sweater into the crème fraiche.

AN: Artistic license was taken with the traditional Irish tradition. "The Aran sweater was once known as a "bridal shirt". When a young fisherman started courting, his sweetheart knitted him a gansey using all the traditional stitches. Her knitting and his acceptance of the sweater signified their affection for each other. She would use all of her skills to produce a garment which would be a credit to her practicality as a future wife and mother, and which was worn by "her man" on their wedding day. The shape of the garment was quite square with the sleeves always short so as to avoid becoming wet too easily while fishing."  
The idea was lovingly borrowed from a Snarry fic (whose title, author, and location currently escape me) with the same premise-an engagement jumper.


End file.
